


How Myrtle Warren Really Died

by themetafictionist



Series: Please don't take these siriusly [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, Dark Crack, Gen, Unreliable Narrator, bizarre combination of superiority and inferiority complex, excessive irony, literal death by quill, mild self-gaslighting, overachiever Tom Riddle, overworked Tom Riddle, shameless author projection, this gets weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27396880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themetafictionist/pseuds/themetafictionist
Summary: This idea was born when I took a Harry Potter character quiz and had Tom Riddle as my result: “How’s your gifted kid/superiority complex going? Are you still at the top of the class because instead of equating your value to yourself, you equate it to your accomplishments, or have you crashed and burned yet?”Featuring Tom Riddle’s burnout at Hogwarts.(Naturally, I wrote this while procrastinating for something else.)
Series: Please don't take these siriusly [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001448
Kudos: 3





	How Myrtle Warren Really Died

Tom Riddle was tired of pretending.

He was tired of pretending to be perfect and normal and perfectly normal. He was tired of taking all five electives and studying for the OWLs and NEWTs in the same year. He was tired of pretending to not be tired to the rest of Slytherin. The purebloods whose influence he so desperately needed would only tolerate him as long as he remained top of his class. He had to memorize two hundred different faces to show to each of the two hundred different person in his House. They would drop him in a heartbeat if he slipped up for even a moment unless he kept up appearances 24/7. Honestly, he was just _tired_ , period.

The other teachers thought he was brilliant (true). A genius (also true). After all, no normal human being would be able to handle Tom’s unimaginable workload (even more true). They thought he had it _easy_ (a lie). He was good at hiding his stress, of course. They never questioned why he always turned his assignments in on time—or how. They didn’t realize that he only knew the answers to all their questions _because_ he’d made a deal with the devil and sacrificed his sleep to have so much time to study.

Tom _needed_ his unrelenting need-for-success because he needed validation that he truly was a genius. Someone whose only fault was consistent bad luck, rather than an idiot who thought too highly of himself and always bit off more than he could chew. He couldn’t stand the thought of being someone who could only handle four electives. And deep down, he had always wanted to be respected—no, _revered_ by his Housemates on his own merits, rather than just some vague rumors linking him to Slytherin’s legacy.

Tom had never been taught that his personal value equated to “himself,” per se, simply because he had no idea how that worked. In the orphanage, all you were worth was the sum of your personal belongings (which was why he was still such a kleptomaniac today, come to think of it.) Here, his worth was the sum of his accomplishments, which meant that to be worth more, he needed perfect grades, a perfect reputation, perfect control, the perfect job.

Tom Riddle was better than everyone else. He _was_ perfect. He simply needed to prove it to ~~himself~~ the world.

He’d never considered that maybe, perhaps, possibly, he thought these things to insulate himself from the truth: he was a nobody orphan from nowhere with nothing, not even two brain cells.

_Each day I get out of bed I think I die inside, just a little more._

Albus Dumbledore was the final straw that snapped him.

The bloody Transfiguration teacher assigned him detention when he had ten assignments due tomorrow that he hadn’t started yet because he’d been ~~reading smuggled (possibly inappropriate) Muggle fantasy novels to cope with the stress~~ studying all night. He was also rather brain-dead at the moment.

He was _done._ So done.

No one else appreciated how difficult it was to stay at the top of the class. How much work it took. How much work it took to work. Tack on those dreams of world domination that would never come to fruition because he’d be too busy pouring coffee as some Ministry intern in a middle-of-nowhere department?

He was ~~nobody and nothing~~ _the greatest wizard in the world, of all time (except God Emperor Salazar)_ and why did Dumbledore have to choose _today_ of all days to assign him bloody detention?

And homework. (Tom didn’t know which was worse.)

A long, long essay on why all his past crimes were wrong. He supposed it was because Dumbledore was angry that he’d gotten away with cursing a fellow student a week ago and finally lost his patience.

It wasn’t even his fault, anyways! He hadn’t hurt that first-year Hufflepuff on purpose; he’d lashed out only because he hadn’t slept for a week. The girl had been bothering him while he was trying to study. She’d interrupted the only time in the past month that he’d felt motivation to work, for Salazar’s sake!

The horror mounted.

Tom didn’t know why he was wrong, so he had no idea how to write the essay. He would have to sneak out to the Muggle world this Hogsmeade weekend (why had he ever thought that would be a break time; of course he wasn’t allowed to have fun) and ~~borrow~~ steal an _Ethics 101 for Dummies_ textbook.

Bloody Albus Dumbledore.

The damn thing was due on Monday and was supposed to be seven feet long.

Tom had a _lot_ of crimes to answer for.

People didn’t know that Tom only hurt others because he was projecting his own insecurities onto them. _(wait, no, Tom didn’t have insecurities; he had nothing to be insecure about because he was perfect and a genius and possibly a god—)_ When they told him he _wasn’t good enough,_ of _course_ he had to hit them to shut them up, or else he would experience an existential crisis, and his fourth Occlumency wall would come crashing down and shatter his illusions.

They didn’t know that Tom collapsed into a ball and cried into his pillow for his mother every night (why was he crying for her; she abandoned him, for Salazar’s sake!) Not his father, of course; the filthy Muggle had abandoned _her_ (even though she’d abandoned _him_ , so that should have made them even). Tom tried not to think about it, because he was already confused trying to keep his homework assignments organized.

(In another universe, Tom Riddle had the time to research his family history and came to the conclusion that he _was_ a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin. This Tom, however, was too busy researching the family trees of purebloods preparing for a genealogy test for Binns. His tired, red-rimmed eyes flickered over the “Gaunt” and “Peverell” entries and moved on. They were extinct lines, and the assignment was only to write about currently existing pureblood lines. His Slytherin dorm mates had a field day with the exam, of course. _They_ didn’t need to study for it. They could recite the names of all the Sacred Twenty-Eight backwards in their sleep, interbred as they all were. Only he, the Mudblood, was stuck in here desperately cramming the ~~night before~~ day of.)

Every three nights, Tom would take a sip of Dreamless Sleep and rest for an hour. Then, it would wear off, and he would take an extra-heavy dose of Pepper-Up to wake up again and resume working. He’d switched from caffeine to Pepper-Up once even the strongest coffee wasn’t enough for him anymore. He also ate too many Sugar Quills. Sugar Quills were his preferred meal replacements. Half the time, he didn’t even bother going to breakfast, claiming to be superior by taking his meals in his room—or he’d just go to keep up appearances, then leave extremely quickly and eat Sugar Quills in his dorm instead. Tom (barely) survived on a combination of Pepper-Up and Sugar Quills (don’t ask how he got them).

(In another universe, Tom would have enough soul left, not drained away by the soul-sucking schoolwork, to split it in half seven times. But that didn’t happen. If this Tom split his soul, he would become even more of a wraith than he already was.)

Tom should’ve known that things would come to a head, eventually.

_I can’t take this anymore. Why me? I can’t do this. I have to be perfect but I can’t right now and I don’t have enough time even with the three different bloody Time-Turners Rookwood stole from the Department of Mysteries and got arrested for and I’m high on Pepper-Up right now but I’m developing tolerance even to that and I can’t even remember what half of my homework assignments even are and there’s Dumbledore’s fucking essay that I have no idea how to do and oh Salazar there’s a project due on Tuesday that was announced three months ago but I’ll have to start it on Monday 2AM 2.0 because I really really can’t anymore but I can’t stop, I can’t change, I just can’t, can’t, can’t and sometimes I’m not even sure I want to—_

* * *

Occasionally (meaning very often), everything became too much even for Tom, and he had to go for a good cry in the girls’ lavatory on the second floor. He allowed himself this one little indulgence because if he didn’t, he would’ve gone insane several years ago.

The walls, the mirrors, as cold and neglected and lonely as he was— _they_ were the only ones who understood. Sometimes, he even thought there was hissing in the walls—but of course that was ridiculous.

No one came to this bathroom. No one liked it because it was dirty and old and the mirrors were cracked and the pipes broken and all the girls preferred the first-floor bathroom for better gossip, anyways. He performed three different locking charms on the door and stared at his face in the cracked glass. Naturally, he’d learnt those spells while studying for extra credit in his first year—oh, how he wished he could go back to being that doe-eyed, (innocent?) little first year, not a care in the world...

His face stared back.

It was dead. Burned out, almost. He began casting makeup charms he’d overheard from those fourth-year girls to erase the dark circles under his eyes, hide the yellow pallor of his cheeks, and mute the stench of Pepper-Up on his breath. He cast a charm so that the smoke floating out of his ears turned invisible.

* * *

Tom was standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, his dark head bowed. _Just one,_ he pleaded.

 _No. It’ll distract you. You can’t._ (Who would’ve thought that the dirty old mirror was enchanted to talk?)

_It’s Friday—_

_And you have an essay for Dumbledore, along with two for Astronomy and three for Transfiguration and four for Charms and five for History of Magic and six for Runes and seven for Arithmancy and OWLs and NEWTs to study for and the Ministry internship interview to prepare for and that hopefully-not-fake résumé to write and that—that—I mean, surely there’s something else I forgot to mention—but anyways, you can’t afford to be distracted now!_

Sometimes, Tom thought his reflection in the talking mirror was more honest than he was. Then he dismissed the silly notion because _no one_ was allowed to be more honest to him than he himself was.

 _But—please—just one little sip?_ If any of the Slytherins saw him begging like this, he would never live it down.

_When was the last time—two hours ago? Silly foolish mortal weakling._

_No—no—no, you’re wrong. I’m perfect. I am perfect. I am better than everyone else and I’m better than you, goddammit, and I’m going to prove you wrong by taking this, right here, right now, and you can’t do a thing about it because you’re the one who’s nothing,_ nothing!

Reflection-Tom sighed. _Fine. Do your worst. I don’t even know why I tried to care._

Tom smirked as he pulled out the illegal Cheering Potion he brewed in the bathroom several weeks ago. (He’d promised to develop a Cheering Charm, but that was months ago. He’d have to owl the store owner another excuse for why he couldn’t do that right now.)

Tom stopped hesitating and took a small sip, sighing as all his troubles went away _(no, they haven’t truly gone away, they’ve just been—_ SHUT UP!) He totally did not drain the entire bottle afterwards.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was not weak. He would never have given in to temptation so easily. _It. Didn’t. Happen._

Maybe if he said it enough times, it would become true. After all, his opinion was the truth.

* * *

Through a blurry haze, Tom saw a teary-eyed Ravenclaw girl—Mary? Mildred? walking towards a stall, moaning about some olive that had stolen her glasses in the Great Hall. Tom didn’t pay her any mind. Then, he heard her voice.

“Don’t,” crooned Moaning Mildred. “Don’t... don’t just _ignore_ me—tell me what’s wrong… I can help you…”

That hit far too close to home for comfort. No one had ever offered to help him before. But it was too late. “No one can help me,” Tom snarled. His whole body was shaking. “I can’t do it… I can’t… It won’t work… and unless I do it soon… he’ll probably kill me…”

The potion was slowly beginning to wear off. And Tom realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to root him to the spot, that he said it—said it _out loud_ —the huge secret that had plagued him for years and years, the burden he’d always shouldered in silence, alone. He gasped and gulped and then, with a great shudder, looked up into cracked mirror and saw Mildred staring at him over his shoulder.

Tom wheeled around, drawing his wand. He could Obliviate her—but no. Too risky. Dumbledore was a skilled Legilimens; he could probably detect the traces of memory modification, and he was already suspicious of Tom for some inexplicable reason. Besides, he was also somewhat high; he didn’t exactly trust his own spellcasting ability at the moment.

“No! No! Please, please, please don’t do it,” squealed Moaning Mildred, her voice echoing loudly around the tiled room. “Please—PLEASE!”

“I’m sorry,” said Tom, not really meaning it. But he lowered his wand.

She looked hopeful for a moment. Then he lunged, his hands finding her throat.

Mildred screamed loudly as she struggled in his grip, punching and kicking and trying desperately to pry his fingers off her throat. One of her flailing arms smashed the cistern beneath her; water poured everywhere and Tom slipped. Mildred, her face contorted, drew her own wand and cried, “Expelli-”

Something fell out of Tom’s sleeve. A quill. Back in his dorm room, he would sharpen it almost obsessively whenever he did homework. Waving his arms wildly, he picked up the quill, reached up, and stabbed Mildred in the throat, cutting off her incantation. Bellowing in rage, Tom shoved her backwards into the wall.

He pulled out the quill and stabbed it into her left repeatedly. It was therapeutic, somehow. Blood spurted from Mildred’s eyeball as though she had been stabbed with an invisible sword. She staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, her wand falling from her limp right hand.

He thought, crazily, _So the quill truly is mightier than the wand._ He started laughing as he moved on to her right eyeball.

The door banged open behind Tom and he looked up, terrified: Dumbledore had burst into the room, his face livid.

“No—” gasped Tom. Slipping and staggering, he got to his feet and plunged toward Mildred, whose face was now shining scarlet, her white hands scrabbling at her blood-soaked eyes and throat. “No— I didn’t—” Tom did not know what he was saying; he fell to his knees beside Mildred, who was shaking uncontrollably in a pool of her own blood. Dumbledore let out a deafening roar: “MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!”

* * *

Tom wasn’t exactly sure when the Aurors came by and arrested him. Abraxas’s father had gotten Tom out of several tight spots before, but even his massive political influence couldn’t get him out of this one.

Just as he predicted, the other Slytherins distanced themselves from him as quickly as they could. _Tom Riddle? Oh, no, I didn’t know him—I knew of him, of course, top of the class he was, but he was always rather rude and I didn’t know, I never knew, I never would’ve guessed._ His oh-so-loyal Housemates were all too happy to rat him out in testimonials.

He was convicted for one charge of murder, two charges of illegal substance abuse, three charges for questionable dealings, and one for homework copyright fraud (he still had no idea where the last one came from).

The story blew up on _Daily Prophet_ headlines: “Gifted Hogwarts Star Student Sent To Azkaban for Murder, Substance Abuse, and Homework Fraud.” “How to Tell If Your Child is Secretly a Serial Killer.”

Tom thought he’d known true misery that day in the bathroom. Now, he would do anything to go back to that time. All his hopes and dreams were useless. All he had worked for was for naught. He would never become a Hogwarts DADA professor. He would never rise to the top in the Department of Mysteries.

In the lonely confines of his cold cell, Tom learned how to talk to Dementors. They whispered to him of dark secrets, secrets he’d sought long ago in Hogwarts. He’d been too busy at the time, but he had all the time in the world now. _Power,_ they whispered, _lies not in foolish school-games and outdated books but in true darkness, in the shadows in-between, in ice and mist and half-forgotten memories. Control the darkness and you will control the world._

* * *

Many years later, Tom Riddle emerged from Azkaban a changed man. No, he was no longer a man—he was _Lord Voldemort._

He would have his revenge on everyone who had thought that they could give him homework and not be punished for it. He swore that no other student would ever have to undergo the abuse he’d suffered through. He would take over the Ministry of Magic (and eventually Europe and eventually the entire Wizarding World) and abolish homework in all magical schools.

In this world, there was no Cheering Charm.

(He never did get started on that ethics essay.)


End file.
